Candlelight
by faithfulwriter
Summary: They were friends and they would remain friends, no matter what else they had done and no matter what they really wanted. And friends ate dinner. It was perfectly normal. Why then, why did he feel this way just b/c she walked in the door. PAIRE.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes. _

_A/N: This is a new story. I wrote it for my fiction class and changed the character names for this story. If you leave reviews and like it, I'll give you more b/c I have ideas to continue it but I'm not doing it unless people read SO leave some love. Thanks.._

**Candlelight**

He looked at his watch.

She was running late. It wasn't normal for her. She must've been caught up with something. Maybe he was crazy for doing this. She made her intentions very clear when she left. They were friends at the very least. They would remain friends, no matter what else they had done, no matter what they really wanted. And friends ate dinner. It was perfectly normal.

He smiled when she walked in; her blonde curls bounced in the sunlight. Peter smiled and hugged her. She looked good in that blue dress. It fit her curves like a second skin and sat perfectly above her knees. He tried not to look but he couldn't help it. She was beautiful. He knew what he wanted to say but while she sat in front of him, all the words escaped him. He was focused on trying to not to kiss her, not to remember what it felt like when she was with him because it wasn't normal.

The girl laughed and she sipped her champagne, apparently he said something funny, though he wasn't sure what. He stared at her as she smiled. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, his eyes still on her. What had he been thinking? This was torture. She chose James. She wore his ring on her finger and he made it very clear from that moment that he wasn't going to be there to watch. She kept calling him. He was weak; he couldn't resist her. He didn't want to.

She picked up her fork and pressed her lips together in a forced smile. She moved her fork across her plate and looked down, twisting her fork around her pasta but not eating it.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked at her silence.

She paused and looked up at him. "I'm glad you're my friend." She put extra emphases on that word. Friend. He was beginning to hate the word more fervently than he hated himself.

"Claire…"

"Peter, don't. Are you willing to just walk away?"

"You already walked away," he said. The bitterness flowed out like a geyser. She shot him a look. "You walked away from me. You chose him."

"You have to understand…"

His voice lowered and he leaned toward her, his hands still clasped together. "You made the decision, Claire. You. It's not right for us to do this—no matter what I want. It never will be."

She put down her fork and pursed her lips, about to say something when the waitress came to their table. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked. Claire didn't respond. Peter looked from Claire to the waitress and told her no. He watched as she moved on to the next table.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

"Like what? I'm not looking at you in any way," she said. She smoothed out the tablecloth.

He sat back in the chair, moving his hands to his lap and taking a drink of his draft. "You are. You make that face, with that look when you're mad or when you're upset. I can't fix this."

"Just be with me. That will fix this."

He wanted to scream, to run away as far as he could but his feet wouldn't move because they didn't really want to. "I can't," he said. She tapped her foot under the table. He heard it beneath him and tensed. "Claire, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," she shot him a look. "You keep telling yourself whatever you need to. I'll wait because eventually you'll have to stop running from this."

"That's not going to happen," he said, leaning forward.

"It is. I know it is. You, if you weren't so stubborn, would know it too," she said. Her voice was steady as she looked at him. He shook his head and squirmed in his chair, his hands resting on the table again.

"Things have changed, Claire. That's not who we are anymore, not who we'll be again." He looked at her hand, the gold and diamond glimmering under the candlelight. That was the one thing that kept him from taking her away from all this, back to his apartment. That was all it took. He had to keep looking at it.

Her voice was soft. "Things can change."

He shook his head. "Claire, that won't be our life. It can't be," he looked at her hand again. He couldn't not look at it. "I won't be with you while you are with him."

"Maybe I want you," she said. He met her gaze, locked his eyes with hers. "We can still have it. We saw the future, Peter. We can still have it. We were together, we were happy." The waitress walked past their table but didn't stop.

"Things have changed, Claire. We changed that future; it doesn't exist anymore. And you don't want me or that. Not really," Peter said.

She looked away, past his face and bit her lip. "You have no idea what I want. Even if you think you do."

They stared at each other. Peter grabbed her hand in the silence and the tears she'd been fighting escaped down her cheek. She jerked her hand away.

"I have to go. I'll be late…" She moved from the chair and put on her coat. His eyes followed her movements. She met his gaze and fought back the words. "Thanks for dinner." She stared for a moment longer then bolted out the door.

Peter sat there, his hands resting where hers once were—under the candlelight. The waitress took their plates.


End file.
